remembering why I fell in love with you in the first place."
Leanne kissed me tenderly on the cheek.
"Don’t worry. You’ll find her, whoever she is," Leanne said.
"You’re a special guy, Patrick. The woman you fall for next time
should consider herself very lucky."
"I fell in love with Polly Ellsworth," I said. "But I don’t think she
considered herself lucky. You know, it happened so fast on the heels
of our breakup I was still leery about becoming too involved too fast.
I just wanted her to slow down a little but somehow or other I let her
slip through my fingers."
"Patrick, that chick was a fool to let you slip through her fingers,"
Leanne said. "I saw her enough times to know. She was real pretty
and smart maybe, but a fool. There’s no way she could have done
better than you. Never in a million years."
"You think so? She’s with some doctor now," I said.
Leanne snorted. "Probably a loser in spite of that."
I told Leanne I was sorry about being such an ass when we broke
up and she just laughed.
"You weren’t such an ass. Actually, I thought it was sort of
flattering how upset you got. You said some stuff that I felt was
uncalled for but on the whole, I could tell you didn’t hate me or
anything like that. Did you think I hated you?"
"Well no," I admitted, "but I did hate that fucking Eduardo."
"If it’s any consolation, I hate him too. Turned out he was an even
bigger criminal than I thought he was. I’m sorry I ever got involved
with him. But I’m not sorry about you."
"Hey, you’ve got a good eye for losers," I said.
Leanne laughed merrily.
"Stop it," she said. "You’re no loser. And you could always make
me laugh. I really loved that about you."
As the night wore on, we talked about old times, only the good
stuff, and not the bad stuff, until we fell asleep. The next morning, we
63
took turns showering, got dressed, and had breakfast together at the
Florence Café.
Then we said goodbye.
Leanne is on her way to Gold Beach, where she is setting up a new
Best Buy outlet store. That girl is really going places. All in all, I’d
have to say she’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had.
Meanwhile, I’m up to page 148 now. I plan to finish Chap. 47
today, right after I’m done washing clothes. Yesterday I wrote Chap.
46 and also did the typing on Chap. 45. Things are still moving along
well, though not at blinding speed. Just keep going, I tell myself.
Yep, it looks like one more draft after all. I will have to keeping
working it through the summer, I suppose. But it must be perfect.
August 1 looks like the final target date, perhaps a little later. I’ve
been pushing myself very hard these past few months, writing for long
hours in the evening besides holding down a regular forty hour per
week job.
At times, I think I’m going to crack. After this draft I intend to let
up a bit and take a look at it critically. It is essentially worked out and
putting it in final form is all that remains. I just want to have a salable
manuscript.
The Dark City. My first book. My first real book.
I called Katrine today and asked her over for a weekend of sensual
amusement. How’s that for crazy? I can’t help myself. When I go
without female companionship for any length of time, all I do is work
and drink and smoke cigarettes and get stoned out of my fucking
mind. There just seems to be nothing else to do. I’d prefer not kill
myself just yet, although I always hold it out as a distinct possibility.
In the meantime, I feel like sleeping with a real live woman and on
that score Katrine sort of qualifies. I’m single. She’s single. I’m an
adult. She’s an adult. There seems to be no reason why I shouldn’t
invite her for the weekend.
Each day I spend alone. Each day I die a little. At work Megan is
delightful and we have much fun talking but she is married. And
while it is true that I respect almost nothing in life, marriage is an
exception. I do respect marriage.
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Recently, Megan took some 35MM photographs of me sitting at my
desk at work. She says I make an interesting subject.
"Just keep right on working," she said. "Pay no attention to the
camera." I heard the shutter click several times. Megan’s father is a
professional photographer and he’s taught her how to take pictures.
She’s a whiz with that single lens reflex camera. You should see this
one picture she took of a post sticking out of the sand at the beach,
surrounded by grass and flowers.
Looks just like an oil painting. She’s got this black-bodied
Olympus OM-1 35MM camera that does it all. She says if I ever want
to learn how to use it she’ll teach me. It’s a beautiful piece of
equipment, solid and weighty.
I might take her up on the offer.
Went looking for some mushrooms today but found none. I am
seeking the fabled psilocybin of the great Northwest, either the
psilocybe semilanceata, the cyanescens, or the supremely potent
baeocystis. But instead of finding any legendary mushrooms, I
tumbled into a bog filled with foul-smelling muck, and ended up cold,
dirty and wet. Blech.
Most of the magic psilocybes are autumn mushrooms, but there are
a few exceptions. I will go hunting in the deep dark woods outside
town again this weekend.
Cranking along on Chap. 47. Should be no problem.
* * * *
April 19, 1978
Probably won’t write the childhood novel for a long time, I have
now decided. Need to put it off until later. Need some more
perspective. We were not treated well as children, I am sorry to say.
The two idiots who brought us into the world despised us afterwards
for the crime of being around. We were inconvenient to them,
interfering with their golfing, bowling, partying, drinking, and drug
use.
There is nothing about them that I will forget to include, I’m sure.
My accursed memory retains everything, much of which I’d prefer to
65
forget. I’m going to be very balanced though. My goal is to depict
absolute reality in a fictional form.
Not sure what to do after The Dark City. Maybe I should simply
check out of existence entirely. In all honesty, I don’t see much point
in living. It’s just drudgery, shame, misery, humiliation, absurdity,
and struggle. We are inmates of a planet-wide death camp.
Auschwitz Earth.
Only my work interests me.
Later: Knocked off Chap. 48 tonight. I like the result quite well. I
want to complete the final climax chapter by Saturday night. I want
this whole draft done by Sunday night.
It won’t be long now!
Reading Thomas Wolfe’s You Can’t Go Home Again. A little
stuffy in parts, but some pretty good material throughout. He’s wrong
about going home, though. Like I told Megan, you can go home again
but expect to be treated like shit when you get there. That’s prett
y
much what happened to me when I came back from Atlanta in 1975.
I’m also reading Dostoevsky’s Notes From Underground. That
man was utterly insane, cutting capers left and right. He’s pretty
funny but hard to fathom. I suspect a lot gets lost in translation from
the Russian.
Thanks to Megan, work is going well. I know, I know. It’s just a
lousy job. I thank Megan for making it palatable at all. For some
reason, extremely smart women are an incredible turn on for me. The
smarter the better, as far as I am concerned. There are many things I
don’t like about working at the welfare office, but Megan is not one of
them. Truly, I just look forward to seeing her, talking with her.
Meanwhile, I try not to dwell on the petty intrigues or be drawn
into the bullshit, but they are always there nonetheless. Blech.
I’ve got to write a letter to Mick. He is in the Peace Corps in
Africa. What a trip. Also need to write to Lloyd, Barry Ascot, Mario,
Michael, and possibly Katrine. Haven’t yet heard from Ms.
Ellsworth. Nor do I really expect to. Such is life.
66
When I finish this current draft, I’m going to quit smoking again.
When I finish this draft, I’m going to do a lot of things, not the least of
which is get good and fucking drunk.
On page 156 of the manuscript. It will probably run no more than
ten pages longer than the original. However, it will be a whole hell of
a lot better.
* * * *
April 20, 1978
About to begin work on Chap. 49. Still reading You Can’t Go
Home Again. Wolfe speaks of a philosophy of life that he does not
share. I feel the same way. I have no beliefs or philosophy of life
save one: "Where’s my check?"
* * * *
April 21, 1978
I’m re-writing Chap. 49 tonight, getting it ready for the typewriter
tomorrow. I’m having a lot of fun with this part. My satisfaction
grows with each completed sentence. This draft is undoubtedly the
finest writing I have ever done.
I am so proud of my work. Although I am aware that it may not be
the best writing in the world (yet) it is mine, and my pleasure in it is
boundless.
Took a long walk on the beach near Heceta this evening. It was
raining and I walked for miles, thinking about things. I was soaking
wet by the time I got back to the bus, so I stripped down to my briefs
and ran back to jump in the ocean. There was nobody around to see
me. What the hell. I find that a dip in the chilly seawater can be very
bracing.
Back to the primordial womb.
Right now, at this moment, I’m drinking red wine and chain
smoking cigarettes. I am laughing at myself and the life I have lived
so far. What a stupid fucking idiot I am. I learn the key lesson the
exact instant after I have made the irreparable error. I have made
every mistake a man can make, some of them twice.
That is why I hate myself.
That is why I am unloved.
67
My sense of humor is still razor sharp, though. Crystalline. I am in
awe of what I am putting on paper. I do not know yet if my writing is
publishable, but it sings, man, it fucking sings.
Confident, ain’t I? I look around and see no one writing the stuff I
am writing, taking the risks I am taking. The books I see in stores are
boring, so meaningless. It’s all just shit.
Where is the real thing, man? Huh? The true stories. I have no
competition. Writing is hard work. Watching TV is much easier. I
gave my television to Chesley Harlan. I don’t intend to buy another
one. This fall I’ll watch football at the tavern.
* * * *
April 22, 1978
Wrote another ten pages last night but got too tired to continue. I
fell into bed about 11:30 PM and slept for fifteen hours straight. I
plan to finish the notebook draft of Chap. 49 today, come hell or high
water. The high water thing is an actual possibility. It rained last
night. It poured last night. It fucking came down so hard it even
woke me from my wine-drunk sleep a couple times. An incredible
deep rumbling sound on the roof. The streets are awash in water this
morning.
I must finish this goddamn novel.
I’m sick of it, almost. I feel like writing something else.
Anything else.
* * * *
April 27, 1978
Last night, at 11:15 PM, I officially completed the draft of the
novel I am calling The Dark City. There is still much work to be done
on it, polishing and whatnot, but the big push is done. A complete
rewrite. A much better, tighter, more subtle, and far more cohesive
version of my great masterpiece.
It looks fucking beautiful.
I must work the beginning over again in a few spots. I’m not
completely satisfied. During next few weeks I intend to polish it into
marketable shape.
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Then I will try to sell it. Yes, I plan to unleash my creation on the
world! What will the reaction will be?
Probably ho hum yawn.
The manuscript is 184 double spaced pages, about 60,000 words
altogether. Five weeks should be plenty of time to get it ready. The
initial marketing phase will commence sometime in June. I’m
compiling a list of possibilities from various sources and then I’ll start
spreading it around.
working title something like Permission or The Girl and The Boy.
Get it out of my system. Pen a serious, mature work of erotic fiction.
Perhaps even a classic of the genre.
* * * *
April 30, 1978
The clocks got changed to Daylight Savings this AM and I was
apparently the last person on earth to spring forward. I am now no
longer a full hour behind everybody else in town.
Been reading the manuscript over and over again, touching it up.
There is not much more I can do with it. It has evolved very neatly. I
am so pleased with this project.
I’ll have the finished typescript in my hands within a month. It
looks as though I should only need to fine tune the first 40 pages or
so. Probably should have begun doing the notebook drafts sooner
than I did.
I had a ball working on it. The most fun I have ever had! At times
like this I wonder why I would ever consider hooking up with another
woman. In return for a physical connection, you must devote all your
time and energy to them. At least that’s the message I got from Polly
Ellsworth.
I would never have gotten this far this fast if I had been in a
relationship with her. No way.
Right now, I am still on a complete and total high from my amazing
writing feat.
Think of it – 60,000 words cranked out in five months. While I
worked full time! That is discipline.
69
Oh, it will be easy to say bad things about it. Even to me it still
seems a trifle clumsy. I’m working on it. For laughs, I like big
industrial words from time to time – like "
perambulation," and
"rhomboid."
It’s a joke, like something W. C. Fields would say.
Not sure I have the technique down yet. I’m sure there will be
many who are willing to tear it down.
To them I say:
"Show me your 60,000 word manuscript."
Meanwhile, I’ve learned that life itself cannot be touched, let alone
approximated. All you can do is write. Try to do it in an entertaining
fashion. Reality itself is writ too large for a primate with a typewriter.
My works are strictly entertainment.
At times I think The Dark City is merely a vehicle for my sense of
humor. You know humor really is the truth. I’m not sure if I’m
capable of doing anything really exalted, like Dr. Zhivago or Gone
With The Wind. Essentially I just try to make outrageous statements
in a light, though deadpan fashion.
I was so disappointed in the first version. It simply didn’t hang
together very well, wasn’t coherent. I should have known better, but I
felt that I had wasted my time. But anything worth doing is worth
doing poorly at first. No doubt I should have rewritten it sooner than I
did. It might have been substantially better. Instead I stewed about it
and waited. Whatever is my process, I think now the final product is
really good.
Still, it’s not perfect. However, it is the very best I can do at this
particular moment. I put everything I had into it. The Dark City. My
first novel.
Life is a dream, says Kerouac. Someday we’re gonna wake up in
heaven.
Later: re-reading goes on. And on. I’ve gone over it twice and
there isn’t much more I can do. I am very close to having a finished
manuscript.
70
Soon I will get a phone so the typist can call me about questions
and clarifications as she works. I want to closely monitor the product
it as it is typed. I like to work on things right down to the end.
Lately I’ve been reading my journal again. Also a book by Sara
Davidson called Loose Change, her memoir of three women living in
the 1960s. Sara had a boyfriend who used to call her up and invite her
over by saying:
"Hey Sara, let’s get together tonight. We can eat and drink and
fuck and suck."